Little Brother
by hijklmnop
Summary: But this isn't exactly the typical situation, is it? He's not normally the one bound, gagged and trapped. It's normally the other way around. It's normally the bad guy looming over the good guy. Maybe it's not. Maybe this isn't. Maybe this is all wrong.


_Um. Why yes. This has incestual themes to it. If you don't like it, you'd best turn back now. Otherwise, enjoy :)_

* * *

Any other situation and he would be royally fucked.

Or any other sort of reprisal of the phrasing. Screwed. Dead as a doornail. Old, alone, done for, whatever the outcome. But strapped to a chair, sticky sweet silver duct tape (a dollar seventy nine a roll, everyday low price) holding Dexter's arms behind his back, nice and tight and just the way he's used to - he's a little short on descriptions at the moment, thanks very much - Dexter's never felt safer. He can't say why. He shouldn't feel safe. He's bound to a goddamn chair. His shoulders hurt. This chair hurts. It's straight-backed, wooden, cold. Unforgiving.

He stops, wonders for a minute. Is this how his victims feel? Bound and helpless? Defenseless, cotton sopping up spit from between clenched teeth, can't even keep a hold on saliva, he's so out of control of the matter.

Yet there's a kind of peace to the situation. A calm. Something going right in the world or something. He's never really been one to keep with the poetic so far as terms go - sarcastic, maybe, yeah, or even witty - but the in-depth thinking isn't exactly the forte of the analytical. Things should be taken at face value, categorized and neatly labeled and sorted into the right boxes. Clean. Simple. He's never exactly been a fan of the metaphor or even of the obscure thinking, to be quite frank.

Dexter wonders how long he's been out. Three, four, twenty-seven? Forty-nine.

He doesn't know, he doesn't _know_, and it's liberating and fucking terrifying all at the same time.

"It's interesting."

Plain white tank, burgundy button-up, loose over straight cut jeans.

"This is my favorite part."

Leather brown shoes, men's size 11.

"Is this your favorite part too? I do so enjoy this."

Not exactly the typical wardrobe for a serial killer.

But this isn't exactly the typical situation for a serial killer, now, is it? They're not normally the ones bound to the chair, gagged and trapped. It's normally the other way around. It's normally the bad guy looming over the good guy. Maybe it's not. Maybe this isn't. Or is. Maybe this is all wrong.

Dexter looks up through a furrowed look, twists his hands a little in his straps. He can't move. Can't speak. Can't _think_.

"I wonder, how does it feel to be in the same place as your victims, Dexter?" His hands are so delicate as he removes the cotton, looks up at you with familiar eyes, some kind of ghost of the former Brian Moser. "I know, I realize this must be uncomfortable for you. I'm sorry."

Dexter pauses, lets his mouth catch up with the moment, quips through newly released teeth, "No, I appreciate it, this is five star service." He eyes the room and watches his brother crouch in front of him, palms resting on either knee.

"Smart ass. You always have been."

"You don't know that. I was three."

"I know a lot more than you think, little brother."

Dexter would ask what he's doing as Brian sidles forward, looks up at Dexter like he has been for the last decade and just sits, sits like he's thinking and trying to dream up the right words. It must be hard to string together coherent speech, Dexter thinks, when you've just been looking forward to this exact fucking moment for who knows how long? Brian had said how long. Dexter was thinking it was longer. And as Brian runs his hand all along Dexter's thigh and marvels at the feel of khakis under bare palms, Dexter's guessing it's been pretty fucking long enough.

"It was all for you, you know."

Dexter does know, but he likes to hear this. Likes to see a peek behind the mask, the view Brian's been giving him - _Rudy's_ been giving him. Likes to see the machinery work, the thought process that created this entire endeavor. The hookers, the blood, the limbs. Tony Tucci. His own sister. "Everything. It was all calculated."

Brian's hand slides across Dexter's thigh, side of his hand carving across a mapped out pattern like a knife that hasn't quite figured out how to cut yet.

"What I did to them, _how_ I did it to them."

He looks almost fascinated by his own actions. Narcissism to a whole other level. Dexter doesn't even have to praise what he does anymore, doesn't have to marvel about the level of intricacy, about the _mastery_ behind this entire scheme. Christ, the guy seems like he does it enough on his own.

And not, all at the same time. There's something darker in Brian's eyes as he flares them back up this time, and it's when Dexter starts to see the little kid in him all over again. The Biney showing off his coloring job he's just finished and expecting praise from his biggest critic, his little Dexter, his knight in shining armor. It's looking for praise. It's looking for some kind of fucking _validation_.

"We could do great things. Dexter, we--" He pauses, lets his eyes pinpoint in their spot as his fingers roam, as his eyes roam. He's practically getting off on this shit. "We could do anything. It's unstoppable, it's." Brian flips open the button on his pants. "What you do is magic. What I do is..."

Still trying to piece together those words, a plan over a decade in the making and he still hasn't quite figured out this ending, has he?

"It was all for you, little brother," he repeats again, as his fingers grasp inside Dexter's khakis, fist at things so carefully it's like he's handling something above his level, a prized possession that should be treasured. "Each cut, just like you do."

And they could have. They could have taken over the world if they wanted to. Dexter's not sure that anything could have convinced Brian otherwise. But then Dexter had to go and change it. Had to go and take the fucking majesty out of everything. Had to fuck up this whole entire thing and go ahead and have those things the human race referred to so fondly as _emotions_.

It's not that Brian's jealous. Because to be jealous, that would require having any recollection whatsoever of what those emotion things actually feel like. But when he really thinks back, back to days when Biney was a real boy and he could feel, when he spent forever and a day in three inches thick of shit and piss and vomit and his own mother's blood, he has to wonder just what the fuck is so special about _feelings_.

"You can't have missed the similarities." Dangerous whispers, spit and swear all up Dexter's neck as the side of his hand sluices all across those crisp clear khakis. "You just mapped them out, so evenly, so... _neat_." His eyes snag onto Dexter's as his brother's hitching a breath and twisting his hands against the duct tape. Brian's having an effect, and he's a little too proud of the fact. "Christ, I wish I'd thought of it."

There's something tantalizingly, strangely sweet about just listening to the plain old nitty gritty, the bare bones of life, no distractions but the sound of ragged breath, how he can practically _hear_ the bead of sweat slide down his hairline, drip off his chin onto his shirt.

It's just different, is all, he decides, and he comes apart just as Brian's lowering his chin to capture Dexter's lips in his own, rough and possessive and without a single piece of abandon. He can feel the intensity, can feel things focusing so damn much more, everything built into this one moment. It's not forcing himself to pay attention, to bother to even attempt to be enthralled by this situation. Because he is - he's fixated to the tooth and nail on what's happening, even through the haze of the tranquilizer, the dim of the light in the room.

Brian stands straight; Dexter draws in his first breath. The most alive they've felt in decades.


End file.
